


without the means to run

by Hymn



Series: Voltron: Legendary Defender [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Ableist Language, Age Difference, Bottom Shiro, Dream Sharing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Inadequate Coping Mechanisms, M/M, Medium Burn, Mind Links, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Post-Season 5, Psychological Torture, Sex, Shiro POV, Switching, Torture, Unreliable Narrator, and doesn't deal with it well, canon divergent after season 5, clone theory, confuse burn, its gonna happen eventually, look the romancing happens sort of out of sync for a while ok, most of the really bad stuff is in ch 1, nonconsensual dream sharing, of age characters, pls let me know if i forgot anything i should have tagged for!, recovering from imprisonment, shiro loses his arm for a while in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-16 08:23:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14807771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hymn/pseuds/Hymn
Summary: “You are,” Lance cracked out, too loud. “Don’t give me that bullshit, Shiro. You are completely worth saving. And you don’t even know what the stupid plan is! That’s part of the -- ugh! You know what? That’s enough. This conversation is so over. The damsel does not get to dictate the terms of the rescue!”Shiro scoffed, insulted. “I’m not a damsel!”“Well,” Lance sniffed. “I’m coming to rescue you, anyway, so just -- shut up, already, dude.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT: hey guys, i put in a bunch of future tags, but the ones you need to be wary of in this ch are -- gratuitous angst; emotional, psychological, and physical torture; gassing/gas chamber to knock someone out; scientific/magical experimentation upon a person; isolation; panic attacks; hymn waxing poetic about shiro refusing to break but _breaking anyway_
> 
> look, most of it is pretty soft, like, there's no major depictions of gratuitous on-screen torture, no gore or blood, mostly just a lot of fear and panic, :| this is the worst of it, though, _promise_. if you can get through this ch you should be golden for the rest of the story! _i promise it gets better!!_ this is my big monster, i've been working on it since mid-april and it's not done _yet_ , tho it is over 20k ( D: ) i just really wanted to get the first few chapters out before season6 drop kicks all my pet theories lmao. this ch starts immediately at the end of the season 2 finale and takes us up to season 3, the journey. next ch will take us to post-season 5 <3
> 
> a million thank yous to [onoheiwa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onoheiwa) for helping me out with this ch! all remaining mistakes belong to me haha. hope you all enjoy! sorry if it sucks!!
> 
> eta: formatting fixed, sorry about that :|

* * *

I.

* * *

The pain was intolerable.

Shiro grit his teeth but couldn’t help the strained, grating scream that choked its way out his throat; tried to at least tame it to a groan because the comms were open and he couldn’t have his team afraid, refused to lead the way to fear, _no_. Not even when lightning sparked _inside his bones_ , wretched and blistering, searing him, and --

Starshine and wind, the dizziness of a thin atmosphere. The sharp swell of ozone enveloped him.

Within Shiro’s mind Black surged, snarling. 

Ever protective and newly frightened, furious and _reaching_ for him. A palpable, visceral presence that, instinctively, Shiro turned towards, reaching back. Leaned in, gave himself up to her because if he didn’t he was going to break, would turn into a smoking, charred husk. He wouldn’t _survive this_ , he couldn’t, he --

Roaring, Black gathered herself, gathered him, and with a _twist_ , Shiro --

* * *

\-- was swept up, Black’s power of teleportation transforming him into stardust and moonbeams, little more than thought expanding flimsy and diaphanous, a constellation strewn veil threatening to tear, everything squeezing, _squeezing_ , and he --

* * *

\-- knew that the heat of battle made precision challenging, creating situations that were imperfect, frustratingly faulty.

Shiro _knew_. 

Had been trained to know this and to respond accordingly. But when Black’s magic ricocheted Shiro had no chance. All he could do was understand -- how a raw echo of the last, true vestige of Zarkon as Black’s first paladin had manifested in the final moment, _beseeching_ , calling to her and sending all of her protective instincts into a confusing jumble right at the start of transference.

It was enough to send Shiro bouncing back along the wrong trajectory line.

Of _course_.

Shiro had all the luck.

He knew it, and he _felt_ it. Felt the realization send Black scrambling to correct the course but it was too late, _too late_. Shiro was already gone, sent, blasted away, the aim misaligned, the final, killing blow one of friendly fire. And fucking _damn it_ , but there was nothing Shiro could do save hold on, hold out, just keep on enduring, trying to _exist_ long enough to make it through to the other side, and --

The farther he went the more his connection to Black pulled taut under the strain, fraying, drawing out too thin to hold firm -- the distance between them too far -- it --

_snapped_

\-- and then it was just -- him -- and he was still --

* * *

\-- hurtling through _nothing_ \-- through time and space, dimensions, the universe gone flat and folded in, and he couldn’t _do this_ , wasn’t built for it and couldn’t survive it. Shiro was bleeding out across the cosmos, he was disintegrating, unspooling, he --

* * *

\-- was elsewhere.

* * *

When he came to he was in a familiar place.

Blinking languidly, Shiro tried taking stock of his surroundings without moving his head just yet -- it pounded something fierce and a faint chill had seeped into his skin; which meant he was out of his armor and most likely defenseless -- and realized: the decor was familiar, yes, but the place itself could have been any of thousands

Despite the exacting specifications and uniform sameness of Galran cells, after a long enough while prisoners tended to notice the subtle differences..

Shiro didn’t think he’d ever been in this one.

_Shit._

What muscles hadn’t already gone stiff and aching against the metal floor seized up, simply at the realization of where he was. Shiro was here, _again_ , a prisoner of the Galra; lost, alone, unknowing when help might arrive, or even if help might arrive. His breath rattled in his chest, a fluttering, frantic whisper.

 _One_ , he ordered himself.

His vision began to blur.

_Two._

He shivered, _hard_ , like a skeletal tree rattled by the winter wind; like a man afraid to endure a torture he _knew_ , that he had barely survived the first time and that he had no way of knowing if he could survive _again_.

_Three._

He forced his breath out, and in, until it gained normalcy. Pushed and shoved and kicked and bullied his trauma back to the space he had provided it, tamped down and contained, shrouded like a ghost just behind his shoulder but not _touching_ him. 

His vision cleared. His body steadied. Gingerly, he sat upright. Allowed himself a single, solemn moment to brace himself as his head swam drunkenly before he finally turned to look.

A jittery, searching glance revealed the prison cell itself to be about as he expected.

What he _hadn’t_ expected, though, was the cloaked, sinister figure standing just on the other side of the room, near the door.

And -- _damn it_ \-- there was the trembling again, the nerves with havoc wrecked across them. Once more, his vision swooped; his heart jack hammered. Despite the cool, recycled air, he turned hot, flushed, an impromptu inferno even as a gelid sweat broke out across his skin, turning him clammy with fear.

 _That_ was familiar, too.

Shiro hated being afraid. Grimly determined, he clenched his fist -- the human hand, with nails just long enough to dig into flesh, to cut, to ground him -- and croaked out, “Haggar.”

The body eased back and the heavily embroidered folds of the cowl shifted, ever so slightly. Just enough to reveal light gleaming off a bone-pale mask, emptied sockets where eyes were meant to be, as black as tar and the space between stars. 

“Not yet,” the druid promised. “But soon. Glad to have you back with us, Champion.”

* * *

That could have gone better.

Leaning awkwardly against the wall of his cell, Shiro nursed his jaw. It still felt faintly like it was crackling, the druid’s power too fast for Shiro’s lunge. When he’d woken up the second time he was alone in truth. Silence filled in the spaces and the overhead light hummed steadily. 

It seemed that, while he was unconscious, the Galra had done some redecorating.

The single cot remained -- barely padded, no sheet or blanket -- but the toilet in the corner had been removed, so thoroughly that Shiro couldn’t glean any evidence that it had ever been in the first place. In fact...

Had he been _relocated?_

Shiro’s brows furrowed, the muscles in his shoulders and at the base of his neck pulling so tightly his already sore head flared with a tension headache. He _hated_ not knowing anything. Within the claustrophobic, clinical confines of the cell there was nothing -- absolutely _nothing_ \-- to give Shiro any clue as to where he was, what was happening, what he should expect. 

No slit of a window he could have squinted through to check the placement of the stars; not a speck of dirt, nor a scratch on the wall, nor a single loose rivet --

 _One_ , he repeated, desperate but insistent. _Two. Three._

This was _not_ the time to panic.

Ever since waking Shiro had been reaching out to Black, but it was like speaking down an empty line, nothing save the static of a broken connection there to answer him. Which was all kinds of dumb, because if Zarkon could reach across galaxies thousands of years after Black had rebuffed him, then surely -- _surely_ \-- Shiro could as well.

“C’mon, buddy,” he whispered, worrying at the seam crinkled along the bend of his knee. The flight suit beneath his armor was moisture wicking, but not especially thick with padding or designed for warmth. It was the Paladin armor alone that protected him from the inhospitable vacuum of space. 

Already, Shiro’s nose was stupidly cold and his everything fucking hurt because every surface in here was hard and flat, and this was just -- Shiro grit his teeth, eyes clenched shut, head _pounding_. 

This was so _stupid_.

He should have been able to _reach her_.

“C’mon,” he ground out, brows furrowing. No one was there to see the grimace of his face, the way the tendons in his neck stood out from strain and tension. “C’mon, c’mon, _c’mon!_ Just -- fucking _connect_ already! Where the hell are you?” Then, thunking his head back against the unforgiving wall, “Better question: where am I, and how long is it going to take for me to get out of here? Because I do not actually like talking aloud to myself just to keep from freaking out at how _quiet it is._ ”

A pause.

Silence filled it.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

* * *

Maybe -- _maybe_ \-- Shiro could punch his way out.

Like that one old Earth movie, _Kill_ Something Something. Just coil his fingers into a fist, again and again and again, and hit, and hit, and _hit_ until something finally -- fucking -- gave --

* * *

His cybernetic prosthetic actually made a fairly respectable dent. Right in a weak spot, too, perfectly placed along the edge of the door near the frame, and Shiro pulled his arm back again with a grunt, ready to make that dent _bigger_ , ready to bust out --

A barrier flickered into effect. Violet like his arm; hexagonal gleams of light seeming to shimmer in gentle mockery, only adding to the dismal, lonely atmosphere of his prison. Everything so hushed, so distant. _So_ \--

Shiro breathed in, breathed out.

One by one he relaxed his muscles, coaxing his mind to steady, to calm. He held himself, as carefully pieced together as the barrier, as still and empty as the cell. It was fine. One avenue of escape cut off, _fine_. There would be more. He would find them. Shiro could be methodical and patient, and he had gotten out of a place like this once before --

_with help, only with help_

\-- and he would not fall apart here.

He _would not._

Centered, as close to a fragile peace as he knew to be, Shiro cast his mind out once more. That piece of himself -- that shade of _everything_ that he was -- that triggered Voltron’s transformation and was the him that was bound up with the wind and sky and black, black night --

He gathered it close, brought it to the forefront of his mind, and _reached._

* * *

He lost time.

How much? Shiro didn’t know. Couldn’t know. He couldn’t even use his prosthetic to scratch hatch marks into the metal floor, that foreboding glow emerging as an impenetrable barrier every time he was about to get a good gouge going. Fucking Galrans and their fucking prisons and fucking _Shiro_ getting locked up in them way too many times.

Stretched out on the floor like a starfish, Shiro stared up at the monotony of the ceiling, at the shades of depressing gray, magenta, and chrome, and considered his future.

Probably -- hopefully -- some day, when the war was over and the lions could rest -- when all the paladins could breathe in peace and hold it, _hold it_ ; release and still be safe -- Shiro would be back on Earth. He’d be back on Earth and it’d be a Tuesday morning, maybe, and he’d go in for -- who knows, a desk job, a meeting, a debrief -- something mundane, boring, _normal_ , in a tall building made of glass and steel, and of course he’d have to ride all the way up to the top, right? 

Because of _course_ , Shiro had all the luck.

He’d get into one of those pristine, brushed metal elevators, and he would last a few floors before the similarity brought the worst kind of memories too close to the surface and he _lost his fucking shit._

They’d get it on camera.

It’d probably go viral.

Lance would likely make a meme about it, actually.

And, honestly? Shiro would take that future without a moment’s hesitation, because it meant that he got out of here. That he saved himself, or was rescued -- Shiro would take either. Didn’t matter so long as he made it _out_.

He just -- he wanted fucking out, already. Wanted to not be trapped in his stupid fucking room with its stupid, humming overhead lights; with the solitude, and the monotony, and the fear that lingered, biding its time, and --

Anxiety pricked him, drawing blood in minor, telling ways. 

Chest squeezing, Shiro considered flipping back over and losing himself in another set of push-ups. Any time, now, and it would come -- the only change -- the usual rupture of that oppressive monotony that Shiro had come to both crave and dread -- reassured he had not been forgotten and frightened that they hadn’t, that -- something would happen -- something was bound to happen --

\-- something _bad_ was --

 _Alpha_ , he thought to himself, eyes closed, now. _Beta. Charlie. One. Two. Three. Ichi. Ni. S--_

“ _Fugitive Prisoner 117-9875_ ,” came the voice over the intercom, “ _please, remain calm during the gassing process._ ”

There. The voice in the cell, disembodied, whirring mechanically, Shiro’s only link to the outside world. His breath left him in an unsteady rush. _Please, remain calm. Please, remain calm. Please, remain --_

Yes, stellar, Shiro would get right the fuck on that. _Remain calm_ , his ass. 

But this had happened -- perhaps; again, it was hard to tell without being able to keep track of time -- at least once a cycle -- day? quintant? -- since Shiro had first awoken in the new room. The hazy billow of gray mist rising up from pin-prick holes along the baseboards of the walls. Shiro had tried, but he couldn’t conceive of any way to utilize them in an escape. And, after six goes of the treatment, he had gotten tired of the lingering nausea and weakness from trying to hold his breath, so --

Shiro made himself breath in, breath out.

Forced himself to stay still, not to _fight_ , though every instinct was screaming at him; though shame burned hot and sick in the back of his throat no matter how many times he did this -- _how many, how many?_ he _didn’t fucking know!_ \-- no matter how many times he forced himself to _surrender_. 

Easy, easy, keep still, stay calm, _one, two, three --_

When he came back, at least, he would no longer be hungry. Whatever he was here for, they weren’t treating him the same as they had when he was Champion, left to stew in his own filth and blood more often than not, tossed scraps just enough to keep him fighting.

No, not this time.

Here, now -- his skin would be cleaned, hair brushed out, nails neatly trimmed. Left with no need to relieve himself, no longer thirsty, and -- it was psychological, wasn’t it? Refusing to let Shiro even guess the time by how long his hair grew; not even letting him feed himself. Until he was transported out of reality and suspended forever in this moment, in this never ending limbo, and there was no telling if that was all they did, if they only did the most basic of maintenance upon his body. He -- Shiro couldn’t --

_How much of his life was he meant to lose?_

Don’t think about it, he murmured in his mind, already fogging over, already fading. Don’t _think_ about it, about what they do to you when you’re not looking, _don’t think_ \--

He reached for Black, and he kept reaching, right until he couldn’t any longer.

* * *

When he emerged from the gassed state, he drifted.

It was as good a time as any -- perhaps even better than most -- to search for Black. Like this, he felt outside his body. Nothing but waves of thought, a glimmer of essence stretched out, unbound. For a moment -- a fraction of a moment -- Shiro was free. No longer tethered or caged; a wandering soul, shifting, _shifting_ \--

And then the pieces of himself shuffled back into place.

He had a body -- _heavy_ \-- and lungs -- _strained_ \-- and a head -- _aching_ \-- and --

“Champion,” creaked a voice straight out of a nightmare. 

Shiro’s eyes opened at once, and the light blinded him. Garish and bright, a white-blue-terror unlike the world of his cell. Panic curled him like a pill bug, or tried to. Shiro was held down, immobilized, strapped in --

_Focus, Takashi!_

He croaked, “ _Haggar_.”

“Oh, he remembers,” said the witch. “Shall I be flattered, then? But every creature should come to know it’s maker. Eventually, when the time is right. And you, my broken Champion -- your time has already come and gone, and yet, still it lies ahead.”

“What do you want with me?” Shiro asked, too keyed up to even attempt to decipher her riddles; and if he weren’t so wrapped about with terror he would have taken this time to dart his gaze about the room, to take stock, to note the exits and the obstacles and the possibilities, but he --

Haggar smiled, slow and pleased.

\-- could not look away from this fear made flesh and bone and volatile magic. She had touched him, once, rent him, unmade and remade him like some science project; and though his memories were rattled, incomplete, he knew enough -- remembered enough -- to know hate and terror at that too wide, sinister smile.

“It matters not, I think,” Haggar said. “What you do and don’t know. But still, I would rather not risk… complications. Suffice it to say that we are ready for the next stage of experiments.” 

Shiro’s heart rate kicked up, and --

_beep beep beepbeepbeep_

\-- he was hooked up already, tethered and pricked, monitored and prepped. “No,” Shiro rasped, pushing back against the unforgiving table beneath him. “ _No_ , I am not yours! You can’t -- You can’t just _do_ this, you won’t get away with it! Don’t -- Don’t come _near_ me!”

“Ohh, my Champion. Have you forgotten your training so soon? Such a small taste of freedom and already so ill-behaved.” 

Shiro heard the rustling shift of her heavy robes, little shushing noises as she came near that Shiro could almost _feel_ , like long-legged spiders creeping across his skin. It was hard to breathe, and Shiro didn’t know if that was panic setting in, alchemizing him to stone, or a side effect of whatever they were already doing to him. 

Haggar leaned -- _loomed_ , fucking _towered_ ; fuck fuckfuck -- over Shiro, blocking the light, casting him in shadow. A long tendril of her hair slipped past her shoulder and down, to tickle against Shiro’s clavicle, and he was --

 _naked_

\-- don’t _fucking think about it._

“Fuck,” Shiro panted out between shivers and chattering teeth, “you.”

“Tch.”

Like a snake striking, Haggar’s bony hand shot out; gripped Shiro tight about the jaw, sharpened nails dimpling the flesh of his cheeks. Shiro grunted, trying for a sneer, but the grip pushed his lips comical instead, made his rage impotent, revealed it as a farce instantly. 

“Hmm,” Haggar tilted her head, almost coy. “I suppose, again -- it matters not. No need to reteach you when I can simply remake you.” 

Shiro wanted to say: _I won’t let you -- You can’t -- I will never let you win!_

He was ashamed to be glad, then, that she had not yet released him; that he could not speak. Because at least this way he would never know if his courage would have failed him. If, instead of bravado, what would have come out was a keening cry of helpless denial, of aching despair. 

_I won’t let you win_ , he prayed instead, safe inside his mind.

* * *

His mind was a battlefield.

Again and again the gas came -- and now Shiro _fought_ ; held his breath and slammed his fist against the barrier over and over; would have accepted death or freedom, _anything_ but what was to come -- and again and again they took him.

Strapped him down, hooked him up, laid their alien hands upon his brow and cracked Shiro open, like a walnut shell -- crushed, splintered, _revealing_ \--

“Begin,” said Haggar.

* * *

They _had_ him, then. Owned him. All of him, every last scrap, every component, every secret and fear and resolution; Haggar opened him up, tilted him, shook him out until he was empty, or nearly, and there was nothing he could do, nothing he tried took purchase, no way to claw his way free, not yet, _not yet_ \--

* * *

They gave him breaks during the sessions.

Just brief little reprieves to keep him functional. Three times, five, _seven_ \-- brought him back up and out of whatever state they were sending him spiraling down into, just long enough to almost catch his breath. 

But never long enough to really _think_ , damn it. 

Lying there, panting, vision blurred with pain and sweat, near-numb from a level of fear raised so high and steady he could hardly bear it, Shiro had to believe -- wanted to believe, _needed it_ \-- that there would be a chance, later. That nothing could keep him down, because nothing ever had, not yet, no matter how dark things turned, now matter how impossible the escape.

He couldn’t give up.

He _couldn’t_ , because he had _family_ now, and they were waiting for him -- searching for him, probably. They would do their best, Shiro thought; they wouldn’t give up. Especially Keith, and Pidge would add him to their list of missing persons. And none of the rest of them would give up either, Shiro was sure, he trusted them: his team, Black; Coran, the princess.

They would never abandon him, and that meant --

 _everything_

\-- so much, so damned much, even like this, when Shiro was wrung out and dazed and half-in and half-out of his mind, dizzied, confused, nearly _broken_. 

_You won’t give in, Takashi. You won’t!_

He tried to think the words loudly enough to drown out the clinical beeping; the drip of intravenous fluids and the whirr of machines; the enthusiastic muttering of Haggar’s wretched creatures as they gathered in Shiro’s peripheral, clutching clipboards that were full of _him_ , of whatever results they’d obtained in their fucking invasive experimentation that _never fucking ended_.

 _Giving in would be so much easier_ , whispered exhaustion, a cruel parody of Haggar’s voice made benevolent and compelling, tender and aching with how much Shiro had already endured, with how much he wanted to just let go, let it _end_.

_You should. Let it end._

He wouldn’t.

_Accept it. Let go. Just rest, rest for a while..._

He _wouldn’t._

Because if Shiro, after everything -- after the arena and the blood, the alien flesh he’d torn, the bones he’d located just so he could _break_ them; how he’d become a killer and a weapon and a _survivor_ , shedding the him he had been, the pure and the good and the _wholesome_ \-- after all of that, after _Champion_ , if he could still _love_ this stupid, awful life, then...

He couldn’t give in. Couldn’t give up.

He still wanted to witness the vista of galaxies unfurling, stars burning; feel the thrill of flying, the tickle of that first breeze of a new planet against his skin. He wanted to know -- forever, always, again and again -- the deep satisfaction of trust, of teammates he cared for so deeply he would lay his life down for them without hesitation. 

And _that_ \--

That was something to fight for. _Shiro_ was someone to fight for, and he would, he _would_ \--

“Begin,” said Haggar, ever patient.

Shiro’s breath whistled sharp; weakened muscles somehow tensing despite the fatigue, despite impossible drags of pain, confusion. Hands reached for him again. Fingertips against his temples, nails a fell prick of dread. Cold, impersonal, clutching, _hungry_ \--

 _Fuck_ , if only Galran witchery didn’t keep sending him under, in and out of a half-aware consciousness scattered with pain like stars in a country sky, whole _ribbons_ of it winding about him. If only he could have a damned moment to himself, a real one, a chance to gain his footing because like this he was slipping, slipping all the time, scrabbling for a handhold only to find himself grasping at nothing.

It had to be on purpose.

There had to be some reason for this. Some goal Haggar sought to accomplish. Something more than mere torture, than pain and gray ache and sticky thoughts, broken, feverish, disjointed, a losing battle.

But Shiro had held his own through more than his fair share of _those_ , and he --

Was fading again.

_Damn it._

* * *

They took back his arm.

Shiro hadn’t even been aware of it until he was slumped onto the unyielding floor of his cell, the close-quarters familiarity of it a taunt-- _safe_ , because at least when he was in here they weren’t _inside him_ , remaking him, fucking dissolving him; but it wasn’t safe, it _wasn’t_ \-- while he panted and tried not to moan loudly enough for his robotic sentries to hear.

Vaguely, he remembered her voice, hushed and intimate as she tucked down close to his ear, whispering, “You won’t be needing _this_ any longer. But don’t worry, Champion. I’ll be putting it to much better use.”

Shiro hadn’t thought he would miss the cursed thing so much, but he was too weak to lift himself with the one arm, too tired and aching, and _where was Black_ , he needed her, needed to get _out_ , had to get the fuck away, he --

Didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to even _acknowledge_ the possibility, but…

How long could he last, like this?

 _Long enough_ , he vowed, fighting the nausea and misery and chittering fear to try reaching for Black again. He forced himself, despite the strain, despite the tears that dampened his lashes, because Shiro _would not give up_ , he wouldn’t, he --

He was going to _survive_ this.

* * *

And then something _changed_ , shifted, rearranged or settled, some plateau reached or spell finely tuned, and --

The next time alien fingers traced across his brow, sinking in, _reaching_ , Shiro began to learn the slow-slick-sluggish slide of being in two places at once, the impossible reality of being _here_ and also _there_. How it felt as though bits and pieces of himself were just softening up and falling right off, globs of what made him _Shiro_ sloughing away, melting, poured into a familiar mold.

Familiar, but _wrong_.

It felt like suffocation. Like being buried alive. Like drowning.

Shiro wanted to fight it, but he didn’t know how. How did he --

What was he --

 _Why_ \--

* * *

“Begin,” said Haggar, again, and again, and _again_ \--

* * *

He was screaming.

Trapped in the hybrid hell of technology and magic working to ruin him, to obliterate and copy him, to use and abuse the essence of who and what and why he was; a moment that held and held and held until he was sure he would snap, would break, but he didn’t, and he wished -- traitor thought, weak, awful; Shiro didn’t _care_ \-- that he _would_ , just so that it would stop.

Worst of all, he knew -- he knew instinctively, and without a chance of changing a thing, _fuck_ \-- that this was going to hurt the others. 

Whatever scheme Haggar was brewing would hit them hard, a sucker punch, and she played _for keeps_. They weren’t ready. His team. His family. Those he was meant to lead and protect. He was being made into a weapon again, but Haggar was clever, she had learned, and this -- whatever it was --

This might shatter them, tear them apart, and it was going to be _all his fault_. It was --

It _wasn’t fair_.

He couldn’t stop screaming.

* * *

Eventually, they stopped even taking him back to his cell.

* * *

It hurt worse, now. More than Shiro knew how to stand strong against. He --

He _hated_ this --

The last thought Shiro had that wasn’t shared -- stolen -- eaten up and spit out again -- that wasn’t twined about with someone else, a him that was not him, a self that was no self at all, was one of cowardice, maybe; a small thought, helpless and overwhelmed beneath his grasping, desperate, illusory bravado and frantic determination; a quiet voice asking --

_please, please save me!_

And then --

 _Finally_. At the last instant, the last _fucking_ chance; when Shiro was little more than raw agony and despair, outside himself, nothing more than star streams and the vapor of dreaming, when Shiro was stripped of _self_ and _body_ and _dignity_ \--

Finally, she found him.

Black at the back of his mind with a possessive snarl, rooted deep, trust and surety, invisible as the wind, the sky, vast as space, all consuming and so, _so small_ , pulled taut with distance but _there_. Shiro let her thread through him, let himself sink in, because if nothing else he would keep _her_ , this connection.

Surely, he could hang on through anything and everything for a Black Lion waiting patiently for him in the black of space; could use it to tether and ground him, to _keep_ him.

And _then_ \--

A long, long fall, all the way down, deep into a dark where nothing lived save shadows and echoes, confusion and murky fatigue, and a struggle to hold on, to just keep _holding on_ \-- unending, unfocused, but eternal, because Shiro wouldn’t lose, he wouldn’t give up.

He would _never_ give up.

* * *

_Shiro woke._

_Trapped, experimented on -- he had no idea, knew only the clawing fear and rage of needing to get out, to go, to escape and live, please, just let him be free --_

_He had his arm back; his hair was a mess; his clothing was a tattered reminder of the past, and --_

_run run run_

_No matter how fast Shiro ran, he was --_

_still drowning_

_\-- roiling helpless beneath the impressions of a stranger, losing himself inside a familiar prison, numbed and fumbling in the dark. He was reacting, acting, his thoughts subsumed and filtered, owned and twisted, but he wasn’t real. He wasn’t there._

_This wasn’t him!_

_What is this? Shiro’s heart thundered, quaked. Black was a whisper inside him, forlorn, longing, mourning, and Shiro was in the snow and the cold but he wasn’t, because he was --_

_He was --_

_He was --_

_Not awake._

_Not quite dreaming._

_Lost.  
_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly, this desperately needs another read-through because it's wordy and real redundant in places but I TELL YOU WHAT i just do not have it in me, so now you must suffer, sorry??? thank you to onoheiwa again for looking this over. i'm only sorry that i took your good advice and ran it into the ground, oops. 
> 
> two notes, pls be aware of the UNRELIABLE NARRATOR tag, because if things seem confusing that is, ah, because _they are_ , shiro is v v confused, just, uh, hang in there, i guess? i don't know how else to write this story haha. annnnnd CHARACTER DEATH WARNING -- i'm just gonna come right out and say it: i kill kuron off-screen in this chapter. i'm real sorry guys, :<
> 
> o yeah and -- shiro is down an arm in the second half of this chapter; prepare for some ableist language and thinking
> 
> edit: crap on a stick guys in my writer-on-a-past-due-deadline delirium i got my shiro headcanons confused so a paragraph in there has been altered because otherwise _a whole shit ton_ of already-written stuff would have to be changed and ghad;fjdsf WOW LOOK AT ME I AM SO ON TOP OF THIS WRITING THING HAHA HA HAA

* * *

II.

* * *

_There were --_

__

* * *

_\-- damn it, he -- he had to do this._

_It didn’t matter how much it hurt, still, remembering that first rebuff. Black hadn’t wanted him when he’d returned, but it didn’t matter, it didn’t -- he was wrong, wrong, wrong, but he didn’t fucking care, he couldn’t listen to the voice in his head, he -- Shiro -- couldn’t allow his own insecurities and tender heart to stop him from at least trying. Lance had asked him to -- He had --_

_Shiro bowed his head, his aching, throbbing, fucking painful --_

_“You trusted me once,” he whispered, fingers curling around Black’s inert controls and heart thundering with desperate hope, a violent plea. “Trust me again!”_

__

* * *

_\-- dreams? Memories?_

_Bits and pieces of reality, or multiple realities, all fractured into parts. They had been shuffled together, pressed tightly alongside so that the edges lined up, crumbling to dust where they didn’t fit, so they were forced to fit. So that it pinched and pricked, painful, sore where he had been spliced together, forced into unison, some backwards kind of coherency._

_His mind felt like a reel of film, but the frames didn’t make sense. The narrative wasn’t linear or whole, and Shiro was losing the plot._

_It ached, this confusion. Where...?_

_It was like Shiro was a river running through the woods, a thousand streams all diverging and converging; veins branching out like the roots of a tree, like an overlapping canopy; was blood pumping through a network of veins, pulsing, cycling over and over on an endless loop, Shiro --_

_where was he? when was he?_

_\-- was everything and everywhere at every time, a million pieces set adrift on turbulent seas, pulled and pushed inward and outward, together and away with each passing moment, with each rolling, rocking wave, and he was --_

_\-- lost in the dark, he was -- “Shiro!” -- not Shiro. No, that wasn’t right, he was and he wasn’t and there were -- two of him? one? was he real or fake, he couldn’t seem to tell the difference anymore, and he was -- what? -- something else and entirely him, two places at once and a mind broken up across a gulf, a single entity stretched past the breaking point to fit a whole universe inside, gas giants near his spleen, newborn stars sparking across his arteries, he --_

_“Shiro!”_

_\-- was supposed to be somewhere, but the not-him couldn’t go there, he couldn’t -- Black wouldn’t let him, she was a snarling, circling cage, letting him in and keeping him out in turns, and Shiro -- the real -- real? -- Shiro was a ghost flickering along the path she tread, wanting in, waiting, hoping, he --_

_They needed him._

_“Shiro!”_

_He just had to figure out how to get there!_

_“Shiro!”_

_He had to get --_

_\-- here. He was here!_

_Whole, shining, Black singing all around him, glorious like the wind and the stars, and he was -- where was this, again? the astral plane? -- the void where Black had taken him into her memories, once, only greater, bigger, because there were the others, a shining-rainbow gathering, the --_

_His family!_

_For a second -- a blissful, sweet, aching second -- here, in this place where Black guarded the door to entry and their bond was as strong as ever -- Shiro was completely himself. He was separate and apart and free and he could think, thank fuck, and he had to get help, now, immediately, before it was too late, before he lost this chance --_

_“Lance! Lance, listen to me!”_

_“...What?”_

_\-- but he failed, failed, failed -- it wasn’t enough and Black was a mournful sigh of wind in a dry gulley as the darkness swarmed him, rippled, tugged him down and opened him up and crawled back inside, crowding his comprehension out of the way, his thoughts and mind to make room for the other -- the not him -- the interloper! -- until Shiro was lost once more --_

__

* * *

_\-- everything had been black and cold and lonely, and Shiro -- he bit hard on his tongue to fight down a shiver, not wanting Lance to see, to know how afraid he had been, how --_

_lost, broken, forgotten_

_\-- he had felt in those never-ending moments, where he had known something was wrong, was terrified, couldn’t fathom any of what this might mean, of how he might be broken, now, how --_

_get out get out get out!_

_\-- fucked his head was these days. His headaches were getting worse, tension crawling up his shoulders into his neck to paralyze him, and Shiro -- he just wanted -- fuck, he just wanted to be okay! To make sure his team was okay. To fix the universe and make a future that was safe, safe, safe -- he wanted --_

_Lance looked at him. So serious, so thoughtful. A gentle breeze blew strands of hair across his face, dancing, beautiful. All around them the world kept turning, reconstruction beginning, the sun sinking to end the day and hasten in the dark and still Lance stayed near -- always near -- so steady even when he was a whirlwind, and Shiro thought back to that moment, years ago, now, when Shiro had first clasped his hand in a desert, when Shiro had been --_

_himself_

_\-- newly found, and Lance --_

_Sometimes, it was like he had never let go of Shiro’s hand that day. Like he had held on, tighter and tighter, the safety line that would draw Shiro back to himself, back to --_

_“You were shouting at me,” Lance said, “but I couldn’t hear you.”_

_Shiro bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood, and forced himself to laugh, to hide, to not reveal -- don’t let him know -- everything is fine, it’s fine, please, please!_

__

* * *

_He had the distant idea that it had been easier, once._

_That his awareness hadn’t always been a flickering flame, small and barely held together against the licking wind, cupped in a palm not quite large or steady enough to protect it. The world had been slower. Had been dunes of sand that he had traversed, up and down, his feet slipping and sinking in, the trek arduous but possible; at the summit he had seen, almost clearly, but --_

_a mirage? was this real?_

_\-- even then he hadn’t always known what was up and which was down; hadn’t been able to speak the language of color or shape, the meanings lost, lost, lost..._

_It had been easier at first, right?_

_Maybe. He thought so, when he had the mind to think. To wonder, or despair; to ask --_

_...What? What was he meant to be asking, again?_

_Black spiraled about him, lit him up like a constellation. Their bond was the North Star and Shiro could follow it out of the desert, he could, he -- couldn’t. Not really, because the bond came and went. The North Star was not always present. It flickered unsteadily, like a light bulb going dark for long moments before it found its brightness again._

_Yes, it had been easier, once._

_Black, always, prowling close. Trying to find him. Following their link into the morass and confusion, the magic and treachery and the slick-swift-slide of Shiro tumbling. Tumbling down, down, down..._

_What had he been trying to do, again?_

_Distant, the roar of a lion sounded amidst the harsh wind, scouring the sands, searching for him. Slipping, he fell. It was night all around and the heavens were dark, void of stars, and Shiro --_

_Shiro? Who..._

_The sand slipped over his head. He was in a sea of ash and dust. He was choking on it; like an empty vessel that time had seen fit to fill with debris, clogging him up so that the shape of his skin still held a passing semblance of reality, but everything inside was wrong, all wrong, it --_

_Down, down beneath the surface, a bare ripple marking his passage. Pulled under again and again until he hadn’t the means to struggle. Was just sinking like a tombstone through dark waters to find the lonely solitude of his grave._

_Fine, that was... fine. Everything was fine._

_He had been trapped in this spell too long, lost and alone and lonely, and no matter how he had fought -- no matter how much he had forced himself to see -- no matter how he had screamed -- nothing changed. No one came. The longer he remained as he was -- trapped, held, submerged within -- the more he had begun to splinter. The world falling into strips like an apple peel, losing cohesion, and --_

_He just --_

_Tired._

_He was tired, that was what it was. And it was getting worse; all of it, everything worse and worse. Harder and harder to hold together. Shiro had lost the sky and the earth beneath his feet had been little more than quicksand, a quagmire sucking him down, ‘til Shiro no longer owned skin or bone or sense of self, until all that was left of him was --_

_What was left?_

_Nothing, surely. He drifted, sunk, hurt and hurting, all of him flying apart, scattering, lost, lost, lost..._

_Until a whisper of glittering black would tickle him, scolding, snagging him by the scruff of his neck and hauling him up and up and up until Shiro was gasping in air and the stars blinded him, and --_

_Black snarled, refusing to accept his defeat._

_As though it could be that simple._

_Trapped, tapped into, exploited; Shiro was glimmers and half-hidden moments, an awareness that surged like the tide, that waxed and waned as the moon, and he struggled to grasp hold of every second, every reality, every possibility. To hang on, to know, to emerge and become himself -- just him -- to put the pieces together -- to stitch himself into a semblance of a whole._

_He tried!_

_But it was difficult -- such a challenge and getting more impossible all the time. The strain was too great, the journey too perilous. It felt as though he were teleporting again, folded like an origami piece and then crushed between the pages of a storybook, the whole narrative flattened on either side of him, crowding closer, squeezing him into darkness and invisibility, all these words crammed into his head with context that was slipping, rearranging, disappearing._

_He tried. He tried so fucking hard!_

_Each stolen memory like a gasp of life-giving oxygen, a sudden stroke of a bell, clear in the night, in the gloom, in the morass of exhausted confusion. There was Keith in a dark hood, glowing purple; Allura with Altean marks lit up like the stars; Lotor peering up sly and sharply helpful from behind a barrier; Pidge and Matt and Sam; a red sword, a blaster, a sniper rifle, a steady hand; Voltron, Voltron, Voltron --_

_Everything just kept slipping, sliding, falling into itself, collapsing and then emerging once again, and Shiro was so, so fucking confused, he --_

_He was losing himself again._

_He was there -- it -- they -- in the shower with the lights gone dim with artificial night, the tepid water running over a scarred back, looking at his hands -- mismatched, stained, violent, grasping! -- and thinking --_

_thinking? which of them had the thought; to whom did it belong? who was_

_\-- thinking and praying to nothing and anything that he wasn’t going to fuck this up, that nothing was wrong, that everything was fine, it was fine! If only his damned head would stop aching, then --_

_Shiro tried, but there was only so much he could do before he was drowning again._

__

* * *

_Beneath that monstrous ocean, beneath the grasping waves of space slipping over his head, he -- they -- the both of them -- the Shiro who was and the Shiro who wasn’t --_

_“We’ll get through this,” said Lance. Warm, kind, and so fucking soft, like a balm to the pain, like a promise of release._

_\-- the both of them -- wanted so badly to believe it was true, that it could be true, but how? How long did he have to wait! Again and again Black came for him, found the scattered pieces, brought him back. But Shiro was breaking apart in this darkness, disintegrating, becoming too piecemeal to come together again._

_If something didn’t change, soon... If something wasn’t done, then..._

_Shiro could not win this battle, not by himself. Not like this._

__

* * *

_A voice, a chorus of voices in the distance, in his head, in his --_

_soul? mind? essence?_

_\-- all threading together to make up a sound, a word, repeated again and again and like a hammer it pounded him into shape, into substance, into memory, and --_

_“Shiro!”_

_He gasped, and -- the singing that held him grew louder, keening, wind and stars and the terror of free fall, and --_

_“Shirrrooooo, Shiro, hey! Buddy, my main man -- you there? Shiro!”_

_A single voice, familiar, calling from a place he knew, welcomed, craved... He came together all at once, pieces of himself lost and ghost-like and worn thin with time and imprisonment suddenly unfurling, forming, crafting him into a person again, into himself, into --_

_Shiro._

_“There you are,” said that warm, familiar voice, grown so dear, now, so important. It was --_

_Lance._

_He remembered, this was -- Lance. Lance of the Red Lion, dressed in blue armor; Lance the absurd, the kind, the jovial, the clever, his new right hand, his --_

_“Lance,” Shiro said, ragged, “Lance, listen! I --”_

_Across the space -- the void, glimmering, vast and so full, rushing and roaring, where he was so close to being himself again, so close! -- Lance crooked a grin at him that only wobbled a little._

_“Hey, I know, I know. We’ve done this... Yeah, a few times. It’s getting worse, huh? We thought it might, since --”_

_“Lance,” Shiro begged._

_“It’s okay! I got you, Shiro. You’re gonna get through this. We’re almost ready to go, okay? Almost --”_

_Shiro flexed his hands -- hands! he had hands? were they still -- and heaved a breath he didn’t need, and shuddered like a bolt of ion energy, coalescing, forming, ready to be fired. What did he -- Why -- Please! Please, just --_

_“Don’t leave me here!”_

_Lance snapped his mouth shut at Shiro’s plea, eyes closing with a flinch that rocked him back onto his heels and then up onto his toes. His was in his armor, helmet tucked beneath one arm, and as though he were already engaged in battle his brows furrowed, mouth pulled down into a serious curve._

_“We won’t,” he promised. His eyes opened, and Lance said, with that hidden strength of his, that resolve and steadiness that Shiro only half understood, but was enough -- more than enough! -- for him to believe in, “We’re coming for you, big guy. It’s just a little longer, now, so just sit tight and wait to be rescued, yeah? I got you, Shiro. I won’t let you go.”_

_And then he lifted his hands, a little awkward with the helmet still tucked beneath one elbow, and curled his fingers into a shape with which to point at Shiro, and..._

_Fucking finger guns, really?_

_Shiro felt the laughter jettison up within him, strange and foreign, wild, delighted. Yes, this! This feeling of being real, of being human, of being himself --_

_“We’ll get you through this,” Lance added with a showman’s wink. “I didn’t mean to stress you out. Pidge and Allura thought it might be a bad idea, but -- I just... I was worried how you were holding up? Bad, I know, that was dumb. But I also wanted to let you know that it won’t be much longer. We’ve got a plan that we think will work. A stupid plan, maybe, but it...”_

_The longer Shiro remained in this space -- the longer Lance spoke to him -- the more the words shaped reality around him, settling him; letting him think more clearly and feel like himself, again, if just for a moment._

_A shaky kind of self, yes, but real for all that Shiro and Lance were nothing save conscious minds in a non-physical world. Vaguely, Shiro remembered other visits; other little talks between the two of them here, in secret and in desperation and just because, but it was too much effort to reach for them._

_Instead, Shiro settled into the present moment, glorying in the brief reprieve._

_“Nope, nooooope,” decisive, Lance flung his arm up to make an ‘x’ with them, “zero negativity! It’s a great plan! It’ll totally work! We can definitely trust, uh, the whole team, yeah, sure, even the ones who tried to kill us before, suuuure, that’s a great idea, it --”_

_Unfortunately, that reprieve was soured by worry._

_Frowning, Shiro crossed his arms so that Lance could see exactly how displeased he was even across the distance. “Is this plan dangerous, Lance?”_

_A pause._

_“What, don’t you trust us?”_

_Shiro’s eyes narrowed, despite how his lips twitched. It was strange, this state of being. There was a fondness that was stronger than he expected; a flow to the give and take that felt deeply worn in, like a channel made through bedrock by the steady run of water. For a moment, Shiro twitched toward the past, his memories._

_Black gave a warning purr at the base of his skull, holding him steady._

_“What have I forgotten?” Shiro asked, hands tightening on his biceps._

_Lance was watching him warily. “I don’t know,” he said, finally. “A lot, maybe. What you remember -- it always seems to change, each time we meet. Sometimes less, sometimes more.”_

_It sounded like the truth, but Shiro could tell -- how? -- that Lance was hiding something. Saw it darting in his gaze, uneasy. Again, Shiro found himself growing reckless, hungry for understanding, he wanted to know --_

_Black hissed._

_Shiro scowled, ignoring her to push against the roiling fog, the delicacy of his transient being, looking for --_

_“What are you keeping from me?”_

_\-- what memories had he lost, this time?_

_“I don’t want to stress you out --”_

_“Lance,” Shiro grit out._

_“Okay, okay.” The Red -- Red? Wait... Wasn’t he meant to be Blue? -- Paladin raised his hands, placating. The void roared between them, nearly overwhelming, but his words fought through. “I didn’t want to stress you out. You’ve been... getting worse. There’s a lot you’ve probably forgotten. But honestly, that’s sort of to plan, and -- look, Shiro, just trust us. Trust me?”_

_Shiro’s head hurt. He refused to pinch the bridge of his nose, as if the pressure might help alleviate some of the pain. He frowned instead._

_“Trust you?” he whispered, words thick, as though in a dream. “Trust -- where’s Keith?”_

_“Ah, quiznak. Black, Red? A little help here? Do you think --”_

_There was a roar, throaty, thunderous; another, warm and challenging. The tattered edges of Shiro smoothed out, tightened, held. He drew in a deep breath, saw Lance -- his right hand; Paladin of the Red Lion; friend and trusted confidant -- said, “Lance! Lance, I --”_

_“Hey,” said Lance, grin crooked, wobbling at the corner. “How’s it going, big guy?”_

_“What’re you -- What’s going on? The plan, how’s the --”_

_“It’s fine, Shiro,” Lance soothed. He fiddled with his helmet a moment between his palms, back and forth. “We’re coming for you, okay? So just hang on. Not much longer, now.”_

_Shiro frowned, concerned. His heart was racing; his mind was the roaring void, empty, empty, and so full of noise, of sound, an echoing chasm that just wouldn’t -- fucking -- fit right. He --_

_“Lance,” he whispered. “Lance, listen --”_

_“...I’m listening.”_

_Why did he sound so sad? Lance never sounded sad. Boastful, yes. Smarmy, yes. Hesitant, on occasion. But he was all flash and bang, righteous determination, drawling, prodding humor, he wasn’t meant to be sad. He --_

_“Don’t leave me,” Shiro said. “Lance, stay with me. I -- my head. I don’t know --”_

_Wind in his head; fire licking kind warmth into him; Lance still and patient and lit up rose across the flickering emptiness. Memories shifted, like gears trying to line up, to fit, grinding until --_

_Shiro changed, became, was --_

_“The plan,” Shiro gritted out, eyes clenched shut. He was echoes overlapping, moments twisting, twining, tumbling into a thorny bush that tore at him. He was Shiro -- he was himself -- he was the Black Paladin and he wanted to go the fuck home already!_

_“Don’t worry about --”_

_“It had better,” Shiro managed, with effort, “not be dangerous, Lance. You didn’t answer me.”_

_A pause, and then Lance laughed like he was going to choke on it. “Ever the leader, aren’t you, Shiro? And more stubborn than anyone I’ve ever met. Fine. Yeah, it’s dangerous, Shiro, but it’s nothing we haven’t seen before, buddy, so don’t you worry your pretty head about it.”_

_“My head?” Shiro asked, because Lance had spoken in that lazy, reckless, almost taunting way of his, and, as always, it pulled at the matching parts of Shiro, the bits of him that wanted to push and challenge and delighted in it, “Not my face? I’m a little hurt here, Lance.”_

_Snorting, Lance only said, “You know how I feel about your face.”_

_“...Do I? I don’t --”_

_“Sorry,” Lance grimaced. “I shouldn’t have...” With a sigh, the Red Paladin lifted his blue helmet and put it on, his eyes mostly hidden behind the visor, now. It still left his mouth in plain view, though, and Lance’s expression could still be seen in the shadows there, the tensed curve and bitter tightness._

_“Don’t,” Shiro said, head spinning and spinning and spinning. He gripped at his temples, curling up over his knees, shaking, he --_

_“Whoa, Shiro, it’s okay!”_

_“Don’t!”_

_He was himself! He was Shiro and no other and he was here and he was whole; or had been for but a moment, and then he’d turned his head and looked behind him and the waiting shadows had scratched at his eyes, tearing at his vision and understanding, and dug in talons deep to pull him back, and back, and back, stumbling, until no matter how he tried to be exactly where he was his footing was shaky, half-in, half-out, not here, half-here, he was --_

_Shiro grit his teeth, held on as hard and tight as he could, forcing focus._

_“Don’t risk yourselves for me. I’m -- I’m not worth it. I’m already so far gone, Lance. What if there’s nothing left of me to bring back? Don’t... Just don’t, okay? We can figure out some other way, this plan -- it’s dangerous, it --”_

_“You are,” Lance cracked out, too loud. “Don’t give me that bullshit, Shiro. You are completely worth saving. And you don’t even know what the stupid plan is! That’s part of the -- ugh! You know what? That’s enough. This conversation is so over. The damsel does not get to dictate the terms of the rescue!”_

_Shiro scoffed, insulted. “I’m not a damsel!”_

_“Well,” Lance sniffed. “I’m coming to rescue you, anyway, so just -- shut up, already, dude.”_

_Weird, how much being told to shut up made Shiro light up inside, warm with affection._

_“Lance...”_

_“Yeah,” Lance sighed, weary. “Yeah, I’m here. It’s going to be okay, Shiro. I just wanted you to know that. But I... I gotta go now, okay? So I can save you. Just wait for me. Please. Just a little longer.”_

_He was so far away._

_Shiro was alone, even here, all this space stretched out between them. Felt it like an ache in his non-existent bones, a winter chill come to frost him over. A filigree of ice that he wanted to shiver his way out of, and Shiro wanted to believe it would be okay, he did! Desperately, because..._

_Because he was scared. And he was alone and afraid of being lonely, afraid of the dark and the cold and the confusing, jangling array of mismatched pieces that had owned him for -- so long -- too long -- forever it seemed --_

_don’t leave me here!_

_\-- and before he could help himself Shiro reached. He reached with all that was left of him, everything that made him who he was, all he had ever been. Reached with strength gifted to him by weakness and vulnerability and fear, as well as a will he had honed and cobbled together and forced to become real even when he thought he would fall apart, and he --_

_He reached --_

_He clutched --_

_He grasped --_

_Lance gasped, head jerking back. Eyes wide, he stared at Shiro, mouth agape, and so, so fucking warm._

_Shiro held on to that warm red light, that beating pulse like a heart, that connection -- felt Lance open up and welcome him -- felt himself anchor in, deep, holding fast, never letting go because he couldn’t, if he did he would -- he would be --_

_Shiro’s breath caught, rattled in his chest, a warm vibration._

_Lance licked his lips, said, “Trust us. Trust me, Shiro. I got you. I won’t ever let you go. I promise!”_

_“Okay,” Shiro said, helpless._

_And then --_

_The void faded, was gone._

_Took Shiro with it..._

__

* * *

_Fractures and fragments._

_He was lost beneath the surface, smothered deep, grasping here and there with desperate fingers whatever knowledge or control he could gain, seeing through another’s eyes in flashes and gleams, as they took from him what they needed and perverted it, perverted him, used him, fucking used every piece of him, and --_

_In the back of his head, his heart, the tenuous threads of connection, holding on._

__

* * *

_And then --_

Nothing.

* * *

Sounds.

Like keeping his head beneath water, so the noises came through distant, echoing, distorted -- sounds like blaster fire, like screaming, like the roar of lions.

They drifted through him, under, around -- not yet causing a ripple of reaction, and Shiro breathed, easy, easy, as consciousness came in slow. Just barely beginning to focus on the shimmering, far-away sounds of a world apart from him, separate still, not quite connecting, followed by --

A repetition of motion. A series of _thump thump thump_ that swirled his brain, haze and fog, nausea that made him clench around a sudden, definite urge to hurl. And, _there_ \-- a ripple, a prickle of awareness running up his spine, making him realize he had a spine -- a spine, a back, shoulders, arms -- arms? -- feet and a head that hurt, oh, this --

“ _Fuuuck_ ,” he groaned.

“Uh oh,” said a voice that Shiro felt vibrate into his sternum, his belly. “Looks like he’s awake. Can I hit him?”

“ _No_ ,” came another voice -- tense, clipped tight. “Zethrid, don’t you dare!”

“Just a little hit. He’ll be trouble if he’s awake, right?”

More sounds -- less distant, closer. Shiro recognized -- _recognized_ , was aware! -- a small scuffle, a gasp of pain, the clatter of armor on metal floors. The mountain he was slumped atop grunted, said, wistful, “I could have done that.”

“You’re carrying the package,” said a new voice -- bright, spiraling, curious -- and Shiro wasn’t certain if he knew them or not, knew what this was, where he was, why he was --

The big voice, the rumbling voice that held him, grumbled, “I don’t _like_ carrying the package. It’s boring. I’d much rather be on point. Hey, Acxa, think we can trade?”

“...You have to be kidding me.”

“What! He’s _scrawny_.”

...Shiro was _not_ scrawny, thank you very much. 

What the hell. What were -- oh, hey, Shiro could frown, now. He had a face. And eyes that were scrunched tight, and a mouth that tasted like something had crawled inside and died and then made dead babies, maybe, filling up his mouth and throat with a stink and taste like necrotic flesh. This was awful.

The hand that gripped his thigh to keep him from slipping headfirst down to the ground shifted, and -- oh, _no_. Was he -- 

He was _naked._

Shiro tried to speak, rattled by the indignity, but it only came out as a whispering groan. The ground -- blurry, just shades of gray and flashing magenta lights; shadows and confusion -- swayed, shifting, and they were moving, heading somewhere.

 _Where?_ Shiro wanted to ask, but he was just along for the ride, and it -- he wanted -- _Lance._

“He might be packing a lot less muscle than the _other_ Shiro,” the bright voice chirped, interrupting Shiro’s wallowing, “But he’s still too tall for Acxa to carry, Zethrid. And I mean -- I don’t really mind if you bop him one, but I think the Paladins would get cranky. And seeing as we’re kiiiind of trying to make up for betraying Lotor by helping the Paladins with this stupid, crazy, no-good plan of theirs, you should probably just keep carrying him unmolested, you know?”

The tense voice -- Acxa -- said, “This had _better_ work. I can’t believe we’re doing this. I can’t believe --”

“It was _your_ idea,” said the third, still nameless. Shiro wanted to shift, to see, to know who these people -- women? friends? unlikely allies -- were, but he was aware enough of his -- _naked_ ; couldn’t anyone get him some pants or _something_ \-- body now to know that it was trembling, weak, weaker than Shiro had ever been, maybe. It was impossible to move, impossible to force the effort, and his head just kept swinging, _thump thump thump_ against whoever carried him -- Zethrid? -- and it was making him feel _so fucking sick_ , he was --

He was gonna --

“Oh, gross!”

“Seriously, Ezor? Don’t sound so _delighted_ by it.”

Zethrid growled. “I’m gonna hit him.”

And maybe Zethrid would, but Shiro felt so wrecked by his body convulsing, expelling... whatever that had been, and he just --

 _No, no_ , he tried to tell himself, but the words were flimsy, toppled easily. _Stay awake!_

He passed out.

* * *

( _They never lasted long enough, these meetings. Shiro vibrated from his spot cross legged on the floor, wishing desperately that there was a way for him to cross to Lance where he sat, lit up with pale red light, facing him._

_“Lotor says his name is -- well, not his name, exactly, I guess. But like, his designation? Code name? Uh. Huh. I wonder if... I mean, it’s not his name, right? That would be weird. It’s not like he’s Haggar’s kid, or anything, she -- oh man, that’s right! Shiro, get this, Haggar is Lotor’s mom! Phew, let me tell you, that was not pretty when he found out, he --”_

_“Lance,” Shiro chided, trying not to smile._

_Even as tense as he was, as much as he wavered in and out of reality, he couldn’t help the way Lance’s exuberant rambling made him tense up with fondness. He wished he could -- that they could -- just stay here, forever. That Shiro could lean back and run his hands through Lance’s hair, his head on Shiro’s lap, maybe, and just listen to him talk, let the words run over him and through him and become a white noise that pushed everything back and back and back until Shiro felt safe and warm and happy._

_A useless, helpless dream._

_“-- right. You’re right! Sorry, totally my bad. Got off on that tangent, but with good reason, Shiro, I’m serious, you should’ve been there --”_

_“Yes. I should have.”_

_Ah, he hadn’t meant to say that. Let alone in that tone, terse and trembling, frustrated. But -- he should have been there. Should be there. He shouldn’t be here, lost; shouldn’t be two in one and split asunder, all of him bleeding out messily and how was he meant to come back from this? He --_

_“Whoa, hey,” Lance said, voice low and soothing, that gentleness in it that came about in spare moments. “Don’t... Don’t think about it. I mean, okay, maybe you can’t help but -- agghh, shit. I just mean that it’s okay. I --” sighing heavily, Lance slumped forward, head bowed, and flipped the white hood of his jacket up, miserable “-- sorry, Shiro.”_

_“No,” Shiro said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have --”_

_“You have every right,” Lance interrupted, sounding disgruntled. “Honestly, first Kuron and now you, it’s like you’re incapable of admitting you’re right when it involves you yelling. Sometimes you’re allowed --”_

_“Kuron.”_

_Lance shut up, quick. Jerked his head up to stare wide-eyed at Shiro. Kuron, Kuron, that word seemed familiar, that was --_

_Huh, funny that._

_Had Haggar pried that out of his head, too? Was nothing safe? No part of him sacred or off limits? Even his heritage, his mother-tongue that he had kept carefully safe, kept private but absolute, desperate to form a link that would last even in America, beyond his mother's death and his father's grief. It -- it wasn’t fair -- it was --_

_“I can’t stand this,” said Shiro, in a voice gone thin and high with anger, with violation. “I can’t, I --”_

_“I know, big guy. Just... hang in there. We’ll figure this out.”_

_Shiro nodded, closing his eyes, thinking -- Kuron, Kuron, Kuron -- trying not to let the anger overwhelm him, the furious rage as big and plentiful as an ocean and just as deep and dark and full of monsters._

_“Right," he breathed, feeling the sucking pull of magic and treachery, Galran technology, unraveling him. His time was up. He was at his limit and the drowning other -- the interloper -- Kuron -- was emerging, was swamping him, was taking him, he --_

_Shiro knew the name of his prison, now._ )

* * *

The world slid into focus like a surrealist painting, melting at odd angles, colors strange, wrong, nearly vibrating with saturation. Shiro gasped, scrabbling -- with fingers and brain, trying at once to hold the physical and also claim the memory that lingered, just on the edge of his peripheral. He --

 _You won’t be needing_ this _any longer_

\-- only had one arm.

Blinking, the world sort of swayed back into itself. He looked, and -- yep, the Galran prosthetic was gone, removed. Only the scarred and stunted stub of his right bicep remained. _Shit_ , but he had almost forgotten that. It had been such a small thing -- it _was_ such a small thing, in comparison. 

Still, he…

Hesitant, Shiro reached up with his left hand to grasp at where his elbow should have been, uneasiness prickling down his spine when they closed instead on nothing, causing his shoulder to jump, muscles spasming. His throat felt -- tight -- his chest -- _tighter_ \-- this was --

An explosion shook the air, warmed it; blew long strands of greasy, unwashed hair across Shiro’s vision, tickling his nose.

Right. This was _not_ the time to freak out.

“Wonderful,” came a voice packed full of strain and mocking cheer. “So good of you to join us. Just like a Paladin of Voltron to show up right when I need a hero. Do you think you could lend me a hand? Or do you not have one to spare, hm?”

More than a little shaken, Shiro turned his gaze from his missing arm to the man who’d spoken. Galran, finely boned, handsome, with a grin that only grew wider and more delighted with Shiro’s incredulous expression.

Did he have one to _spare_ , what the hell?

This -- Wait. Shiro narrowed his eyes, even as a second explosion detonated, farther off than the previous. He knew this asshole, didn’t he? He was --

“Lotor,” Shiro croaked.

“ _Shiro_ , how nice to finally meet you, I suppose! And terribly sorry for my lack of sensitivity. I just couldn’t resist, you know how it is -- but I trust you won’t tattle to Princess Allura, hm?” said Prince Lotor, smooth and quick, spinning a maze of words that left Shiro near dizzy with it, uncertain if he was supposed to be annoyed or relieved or _what_ \-- or, wait, was it Emperor, now? 

Frustrated, Shiro rubbed at his brow -- or, tried to. He had reached with his right, and -- _fuck_ this. Grunting, he reached his left hand up and squeezed at his temples, trying to think. The memories were there, but not all of them complete, all jumbled up like pieces in a puzzle box, and Shiro had yet to arrange them into any semblance of order, didn’t know if there were pieces missing or if all he had to do was turn them the right way around, if --

Laser fire erupted nearby. Shiro flinched, tensing all over. 

Lotor had crawled along a line of crates that were shielding them from view. He poked his head up over the topmost before slumping hurriedly back down, grinning even as lasers left blackened pits against the wall behind them right where his head would have been, and said, “ _Damn_ ,” without sounding particularly put out. 

Shiro was _not up for this_ , damn it.

“And this, my dear Black Paladin, is why I need your assistance. It will go so much smoother if you can pull your own weight, you know? Insubstantial as that may be, currently, though I’m uncertain if that will make this venture easier or harder on you...”

“I --”

Shiro’s voice sounded like crows, like darkness and tar and croaking cries. He cleared his throat, remembering that big voice calling him scrawny, and couldn’t help but tense in determination brought on by irritation. He tried again. “I’ll do my best. You -- Where is Voltron? Where are --”

“My generals have gone to give the signal,” Lotor told him, carefully balancing on the balls of his feet and pulling a small laser pistol from beneath his coat. It didn’t look like it packed much of a punch, but at least Lotor looked like he could use it. Shiro, still slumped against their protective wall of crates, didn’t feel much better than he had the last time he’d woken up. 

Still, he wasn’t going to be _useless_. Not if he could help it. Not after everything he had gone through. Dealing with… that, with what had happened, with -- _No, no_ , he thought, trying to see if his one arm could take his weight -- insubstantial, yes, _scrawny_ , he was so _weak_ , he hated -- later, it could come _later_. Right now, he just had to focus on the fact that he was here, whole, awake, entirely himself, no longer occupied and used, no longer at the mercy of --

Kuron.

That was it, he remembered now -- _Kuron_.

Shiro had been trapped within him, helpless, he had -- he had been used, and broken, eaten up and digested, and now Shiro was a pale figment of what he had been, wasn’t he? He could barely move, his body was shaking just from the effort of functioning, and he was without the weapon of his arm, without a bayard or a lion, without his team, without --

 _One_ , he ordered himself. _Two. Th--_

“Voltron is formed, currently,” Lotor continued, entirely unaware of Shiro’s panic. “And fighting off... Haggar’s Druids. I’m certain your rescue party will be here soon. Sadly, I am all that is keeping you alive in the meantime, so if you could just, I don’t know, crawl your way a little further down? Make it at least _slightly_ harder to kill you, maybe?”

“Voltron --” Shiro gasped for air. He couldn’t -- he couldn’t breathe. His ribs were a cage and his lungs wouldn’t expand. The Paladins had formed Voltron -- _Voltron_ \-- which meant... “They _can’t_. Kuron --”

“Yes, yes,” Lotor cut him off. “Lance did tell me this would probably happen, though we had hoped… Well, no matter. We’re all quite aware, Shiro. And so is he! I -- oh, hold on. I need to kill this sentry. I won’t be more than a tick.”

Then, Lotor was gone. Sounds, explosions, precision shooting. Shiro was left. Lost and reeling, because -- Kuron was there -- and here was Shiro -- and there was no longer a connection, so what -- who --

And then, all at once, he felt it. The feral purr of Black in his soul, reverberating through him, trust and love and fierce satisfaction, a whirlwind, a storm, a safe space. She was _there_ , and Kuron was piloting her, but she was still _Shiro’s_ , and he was here and he wasn’t going to go anywhere, not anymore, he was --

Definitely about to pass out again.

Shit _fuck_.

* * *

( _“I wish I could hug you. ‘Cause I… I really, really need a hug,” Shiro admitted, heels of his hands digging into eye sockets. He didn’t really feel it, not like this, not here. The near-translucent glow of his being was a reminder of how limited he was, how lost. He --_

_Lance hummed. “I bet. How’s this: you can hug me as much as you want when we get you out, big guy. You -- you hang in there, okay? I know it’s hard, we --”_

_“I hate it,” Shiro snapped. “I hate it! So much. Lance, it -- I can barely think, barely feel, it’s all -- a blur, and I keep losing things. Pieces of me. Of you guys. I don’t -- I’m having a hard time remembering. Remembering anything, this, us, you. I --”_

_Across the void, Lance made soothing noises. Shiro curled his shoulders, hunched his back, kept his face in his hands and wished he could cry._

_“Not much longer,” Lance promised, but he -- hadn’t he promised that last time? And the time before it? How much longer did he have to wait? How much longer before Shiro forgot everything?_

_Shiro ran his tongue across his bottom lip, but he was nothing more than thought and hope and fear and desire, and it did nothing to soothe the dry ache of his worry. He --_

_He wished he could save himself._

_“We’ll get through this,” Lance said, and his tone was loud, confident -- offered no alternative. Shiro’s hands loosened, fell. He glanced up above his fingertips to see Lance -- hood up, face worn, eyes steady -- tell him, “We will. I swear to you. And when you get back you can have all the hugs you’ll ever need and then some. I am at your service, Shiro. Always.”_

_“Heh.” Somehow, Shiro quirked a brow, playing at humor. “A one man hugging service?”_

_“Well.” Lance grinned. “I’m sure the rest of the team will want in on some of the action. But yeah, consider me your Personal Cuddler, dude. Whenever, wherever, forever. Got it?”_

_“...Forever?”_

_“Yeeep,” Lance’s grin faded to a smile, sweetened, turned heart-wrenchingly tender. “Forever and always, Shiro.”_ )

* * *

“Is he in?! Did he make it in?? C’mon, Pidge, tell me something!”

This time, Shiro was in Lotor’s arms when his eyelids cracked open, letting in orange-tinged light. “Mm,” Lotor said, without looking at him. “Humiliating being draped across my lap, I’m sure, but considering King Alfor neglected to build additional chairs or safety harnesses in the cockpit, I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this gross indignity a tad longer.”

“ _He’s in!_ ” Pidge’s voice crackled over the comm system. “ _Kuron’s in, he’s -- Guys, I think this is it. He’s --_ ”

“ _Lance,_ ” Allura cut in. “ _Lance, what are you doing!_ ”

In his chest, Shiro’s heart gave a tragic lurch. Like it was struggling to leap toward what it found most familiar, what it recognized. Lance, _Lance_ , that warm red safety, that recurring dream, that voice promising him again and again and again --

“ _I can’t make him do this alone,_ ” Lance was saying, low-voiced, rough, shredded through. “ _I can’t, it’s -- it’s too cruel. I have to --_ ”

“Lance,” rasped Shiro.

Silence, and then Hunk craning his head around his chair, bellowing, “Holy quiznak! Shiro’s awake! Shiro, it is so good to see you, oh my god! Guys! Guys!”

“ _HUNK,_ ” Pidge yelled, “ _STOP YELLING._ ”

A breathless crackle over the comms, and then Lance, sounding squeezed, “ _...Shiro?_ ”

For a moment, it was all Shiro could do to exist. Nothing made sense, but nothing had made sense for so, so long, now. And he was weak and shaking and tired, so fucking tired, and his hair was too long now, caught beneath his head and Lotor’s knee, pulling painfully, and he was still naked but at least they’d found some sort of blanket to tuck around him because Hunk was still staring at him when he should have been _paying attention_ , and --

Whatever Lance wanted to do -- if he sounded like that, if Allura was so spooked -- there was no way it was safe. No way it was okay. Shiro didn’t need to know what was going on to get _that_. To know that he had to protect his team, even from themselves.

“Don’t leave me,” Shiro sighed, lashes fluttering.

Beneath Shiro’s head Lotor shifted, like he was suddenly uncomfortable. Silence reigned over the comms. Then, very quietly, Hunk said, “Whaaaaaaat, what.”

“ _Lance,_ ” Allura interrupted, very gentle amidst the sound of lasers firing. “ _He knew what he agreed to. He chose this. He wouldn’t -- Kuron wouldn’t want you to do this._ ”

“ _I --_ ”

“ _It’s not like he’s alone,_ ” Pidge piped in. “ _He’s got Black with him. She won’t let Kuron down, Lance. That is why Lotor’s generals are staying behind, after all. To get Black back to us after --_ ” here, their voice broke, shivering, “ _\-- after, uhm. Y-yeah._ ”

“Hey, uh, Lance,” Hunk whispered, pulling Yellow into a tight spiral, evading, pulling back, away, “Lance, buddy. I don’t know if the comms are picking up on this, but uh. Shiro keeps whispering your name?”

“It is very disconcerting,” Lotor added, loudly.

Oh. Was he? Shiro faltered, and realized by the strange, prickling buzz of his tongue that he had been murmuring Lance’s name.

Right.

Lance, trying to leave. Trying to disappear on them.

And that was _entirely_ not okay.

“You promised,” Shiro forced out. “You promised, Lance. You said -- Forever.”

“ _Oh, my,_ ” said Allura, nearly obscured by Pidge’s startled squawk.

Quiet, and then --

Lance laughed.

Harsh, a bit angry. Sounding a little like a sob, defeated without a proper fight. The way he had sounded so often in the void, yes, Shiro remembered parts of that, now, bits and pieces slotting together, revealing. Lance _had_ promised, he had said that, he --

“ _Yeah_ ,” Lance sighed, something raw and aching in his voice, shuttered and poignant. Something fierce and sad and furious, but _why_ , Shiro didn’t --

He didn’t _understand_.

Shiro wished he could see him, could see what that expressive, stubborn face was trying to hide, match up the image with the harsh pull and push of Lance’s breath as the lions -- just the four of them, and if Shiro was at all himself he would have noted how quiet Black was, how focused she was on another, on someone who was _not him_ \-- continued to retreat, fell back, slipping away from the last of the Galran forces under Haggar’s command, leaving --

“ _Oh,_ ” Pidge’s voice wavered, catching. “ _He -- guys, he did it. Honerva is gone._ ” Lotor flinched; Shiro wondered, trying to -- ah, yes. Lance had told him, once, hadn’t he? That Haggar was Honerva in another life, Lotor’s…

Shiro wished, briefly, that he had it in himself to feel sorry for him, but he didn’t. 

“ _Pidge?_ ” Allura asked, careful. “ _Are you quite certain? And… Any readings on --_ ”

“ _Yes. Haggar -- Honerva -- is gone for real, this time. And -- and so is Kuron._ ”

“Damn,” breathed Hunk, and out of the corner of his eyes Shiro could see his hands grip Yellow’s controls tight -- too tight -- and then he felt the roar of the lions as, all at once, they sang for a fallen comrade. Sang for a Paladin, lost, and --

Black in the back if his mind, sea salt wind and frozen gales, galaxies tumbling, a sense of weightlessness, mournful, going quiet, glad, waiting --

 _I’m here_ , Shiro told her. _I’ll see you soon. I’m still here, I promise._

And he would.

But first, apparently, he was going to pass out. Which was getting old, really, really fast, but Shiro -- vision tunneling, head ringing, body going numb -- didn’t have much of a choice about it. He fell into silence, into darkness and pain and the feeling of being alone, really alone, for the first time in a long, long while.

* * *

( _Shiro stared at the water swirling down the drain, stared hard, his hands clenching the rounded rim of the basin, still wet -- one human -- maybe human -- flesh, at least, and blood and bone -- the other Galran, marked with more tribulations than the rest of his body had actually witnessed, than this body -- the other body --_

_which body?_

_“What a mess,” Shiro whispered._

_It was like looking through a cheesecloth, a gauze curtain; something fibrous and full of trickery. Not the whole picture, but enough of one, softening the edges, distorting the reality. Who was who was who was who? Shiro was --_

_Shiro --?_

_Shiro looked up, dragging his gaze like it carried weight, more weight than he could stand to bear. Dragged it up and up and up into the mirror, set his sight upon himself -- scar and chin and eyes and white hair -- check, and check, and this was him but not him, not him but him, it was --_

_Kuron --?_

_“You’re lucky,” said Shiro; with a groan, a bitter taste, a heartfelt pride. “So, so lucky. To have all of this, despite -- despite everything. I wish --”_

_Shiro wished --_

_A smile crooked, grim and defiant, across his face -- familiar, strange, his and not his -- and Shiro shook his head, lashes fluttering, before he pinned himself on his own stare, his own gray eyes with the pupils blown, and --_

_“Don’t -- Don’t ruin this. Don’t make me regret this, okay? Shiro. Please. Don’t mess this up. Don’t --”_

_The mirror broke beneath a cybernetic fist, beneath the heavy pull of grief and fear and longing. Shattered, fragmented pieces, silver shards reflecting everything and nothing and too many things for Shiro to keep, to hold, they cut through him, sliced him open, bled him dry, and --_

_“I was glad to be you,” Kuron admitted, “But I’m even more glad to be myself.”_ )


End file.
